


hearts beating in synchrony

by buddhaghost



Category: Outer Banks (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Apologies, Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship, Child Neglect, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Foster Care, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, talking about feelings, they all love each other so much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:07:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23892076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buddhaghost/pseuds/buddhaghost
Summary: You’re seven years old when you meet John B, who has long hair for a boy and the brightest eyes you’ve ever seen. You’re running on the playground at recess, and the two of you smack right into each other, both falling to the ground. John B’s nose is bloody and your eye throbs from where you collided with him, but you still take his hand when he offers it to you, smiling. And from him you meet JJ and Pope, and from there on out you four are inseparable.---An exploration of the pogue's lives and friendship before the show.
Relationships: JJ & Kiara & Pope & John B. Routledge
Comments: 16
Kudos: 82





	hearts beating in synchrony

**Author's Note:**

> this is told from Kiara's POV in the second person

You’re seven years old when you move from the worker’s side of the island, the cut, to what is known as the figure eight. From pogue territory to kook territory. You don’t realize this, of course; all you know is that you’ve moved away from your home that sat adjacent to the swamp, that always seemed to have mosquitoes in it no matter the time of year, to a much bigger house, which had _two_ floors to play hide and seek on, and always had air conditioning. All you know is this house and the Wreck, the restaurant that your daddy sometimes lets you help him in. You love throwing vegetables into the big pots when he lets you, and though you want to learn how to cut the vegetables yourself, the way you see the chefs do it on TV, your daddy won’t let you. Says you have to be double digits for that to happen.

You’re also seven years old when you meet John B, who has long hair for a boy and the brightest eyes you’ve ever seen. You’re running on the playground at recess, and the two of you smack right into each other, both falling to the ground. John B’s nose is bloody and your eye throbs from where you collided with him, but you still take his hand when he offers it to you, smiling. And from him you meet JJ and Pope, and from there on out you four are inseparable.

John B is bright, filled with constant energy, always talking. He would talk about anything, you’re certain of it, with an equal amount of passion, and one of the things he talks about the most is his dad. Big John and his secrets and his work and the mysterious office that John B isn’t allowed to go in. You listen with awe, and though you don’t know it then, you would follow this boy to the ends of the earth if he asked you to. He loves to fill the space, constantly dreaming up adventures for the four of you, adventures that involve pirates and ships and mermaids and treasure, always treasure. The four of you act these adventures out during school recess, with John B calling out the orders, you and JJ and Pope his loyal crew.

JJ is loud, messy, and hilarious. He’s the fastest runner and his knees are always scraped, and he sometimes has the faded remnants of bruises, which he tells elaborate and extraordinary stories about when you ask what happened. He teaches you the difference between a chuckle and a belly-laugh, how to pass notes in class without the teacher noticing, how to steal an extra dessert from the cafeteria. You don’t think your daddy would approve of that behavior – he says stealing is wrong, and you agree, but you agree just a little less when you and JJ and John B and Pope are licking the meting remnants of your second ice cream, racing to see who can get to the popsicle stick center the fastest. JJ always wins.

Pope is smart, and kind, and loyal. He doesn’t always want to do what John B and JJ dream up, but he does it, because that’s what friends are for, he tells you. He always has an extra pencil for when John B forgets his, or an extra sandwich for when JJ doesn’t have one, and he lies to the teacher for you four when she catches you sharing your assignments with the rest of the boys. Says that John B and JJ and you can’t afford to get in trouble, but he can, because he has perfect attendance and always answers questions in class. You tell him that you do to, because even though you don’t want to get in trouble, you don’t like to be outshone. Pope declares that he’d do it for you again in a heartbeat, and ignores you when you cross your arms and yell that you don’t _need_ him to do that for you, and then march up to the teacher yourself and tell the truth. You both get sent home with a teacher’s note that day and have to stay in from recess the rest of the week. But JJ and John B don’t get sent home with a letter, and don’t have to stay inside, and that, you and Pope agree, is the more important thing, protecting your friends. Despite your efforts, though, they still sit inside with you, even when the teacher says they don’t need to.

“Pouges don’t abandon pouges,” is what John B says, freckled face serious, and you have no idea where that word came from or what it means, but it fits the four of you perfectly.

* * *

On your tenth birthday, your mother gives you a camera, the kind that spits out the pictures right after you take them, and your dad gives you a net. He had seen you trying to rescue frogs that got stuck on the main road when trying to cross from one pond to the next and tells you that this will help make your rescue missions easier. You grin hugely, hugging them each with as much strength as your skinny arms can muster.

You invite John B, JJ, and Pope over to celebrate with dinner and cake. Pope gets dropped off by his father, who your dad knows from the Wreck because he sometimes brings ingredients that your daddy can’t find on the island, and John B and JJ show up a few minutes later on bikes. Your mother makes a comment to them about wearing helmets next time, to which John B responds with a nod that seems genuine even though you know he will continue to ride without one, and JJ responds with a cheeky grin and a wave of his hand, saying, “Really, Miss C., worried about little old me? I’m flattered.”

Your friends know that you live in a big house, but they’ve never really been inside it, and you feel yourself growing a little uncomfortable with the amount of gawking they are doing.

“Do you guys even use all these rooms?” JJ asks, which makes your parents laugh, but you know he was serious.

You know your parents are wary of your friends. When your mom had asked who you wanted to invite over, her smile became a touch too forced when you listed the pogues, and her mouth twists a bit at the use of that word. “Okay,” she had said, “but what about Annabelle, Elise? Or Susan, the girl that lives next door?”

Annabelle and Elise are twins who are in the grade above you. Their parents know your parents, and you see them from time to time at fancy parties and stuffy dinners. They’re fun, but they’re not pouges, which your mother doesn’t seem to understand when you explain it to her. And Susan, the girl next door, laughed when she’d seen you rescuing the frogs before they could get scorched to the hot tarmac or hit by a car, so you really don’t care for her either.

So, your tenth birthday is spent with John B, JJ, Pope and your parents. You get to cut the cake yourself, after you sternly remind your dad that you’re double digits now. His smile seems kind of sad, but he still lets you do it, keeping a guiding hand over yours the whole time, even though you insist that you don’t need it.

After cake, the four of you go out to the dock. The sun has almost set completely, but it’s still cool enough that the bugs haven’t started coming out. You bring your new camera and the four of you compete for who can take the most ridiculous photo, screaming with laughter as each image develops.

Later that night, after Pope had gotten picked up and John B and JJ eventually biked off, you lay in your bed, marveling the photos. You trace Pope’s wide smile, displaying his two missing teeth, JJ’s eyes, which were screwed shut as he stuck his tongue out at the camera, John B’s scrunched up nose. You stare at the one photo you took of the four of you, heads crammed together in a circle. You gaze first at Pope, who is staring into the camera with an easy smile on his face, and you think of the anxiousness you sometimes see on his face when you encounter other kooks, the pain when he doesn’t get a grade he likes on a quiz. You can’t find any traces of that now. You then move to JJ, who is smiling in this photo, making him look bright and carefree, no indication of the exhaustion you sometimes see weighing him down, of the guarded look in his eye when you ask about the bruises that appear to frequently to be accidental. You look at John B, who is gazing directly at the camera, lips pulled into a gentle smile, looking older than his ten years, and you think of his home, which is empty more often than not, of how even though he talks about his dad as if he hung the moon, you’ve only actually seen Big John once or twice.

You look at yourself, wondering what story the picture tells. Your eyes are closed, squinting against the glare of the sun that is washing the four of you in golden light, but your smile is strong, and you just look… right, pressed against JJ and Pope and John B. The four of you, you fit together like a puzzle. Even though you’ve just turned ten, you feel wise, gazing at the faces of your friends. No, more than wise -- you feel responsible. You are struck by a fierce sense of belonging, of affection for the boys. _Your_ boys.

You drift off eventually, tracing the photos with your finger, the glossy texture of the film protecting the images of your best friends beneath.

* * *

You’re twelve when you first really start to see the divide between pogues and kooks. When you were younger, it wasn’t as important; you were all just kids, running around barefoot and competing to see who could dive the deepest. But you eventually start to see all the ways that your life is different from Pope and John B and JJ’s, and once you start, you can’t stop. It’s the fancy parties you go to with your parents, the ones where your mother makes you scrub every inch of your skin beforehand and brushes out the tangles in your hair to make you ‘presentable’. Though she doesn’t say anything, you can feel her displeasure with the way you run around the island with the boys. You’ve overheard her talking to your dad before, wondering why you aren’t more like the other girls who go to these parties, the ones who love to put on their dresses and sandals and weave their hair into gentle waves. You’re sure they talk more in private, and the thought of them disapproving of your best friends is scary.

Because John B, JJ, Pope – they don’t go to these parties. Well, sometimes you see Pope, when his dad is catering and needs an extra set of hands. You used to be overjoyed when he was present, opting to spend the entirety of the night with him and Heyward. You still are overjoyed, and you still do spend the majority of your time with him, but you’re starting to understand the difference; he’s not here like you are, he’s here to serve people like you.

The realization sits wrong with you, weighing heavy like a stone in your gut. It’s not just these stupid parties, it’s the glances your parents exchange when you tell them you’re headed to the beach, the snide remarks from Susan when you bike past her as she calls out, “Why do you hang with those riffraff, anyways?” You flip her off as you cruise by, rolling your eyes to yourself, because who uses the word riffraff these days?

You know that the boys don’t resent you for your kook lifestyle. But you also know that they must’ve been aware of it much longer than you have, and now you start to see the signs. Pope’s tight smile when you sit with him at the parties, the way he glances around at his father and the other partygoers as if worried someone will say something. John B’s reluctance to come over to your house, and the way he fights not to stare at your mother’s latest art installment or your father’s state-of-the-art kitchen when he does. JJ’s snide remarks about money, and his annoyed refusal when you offer to pay for a snack when the four of you are out.

You’re seated around a table at the Wreck, just after closing, when you ask them, voice shaking slightly, if they think of you as a kook. If you even can _be_ a pogue. It sounds stupid when you say it out loud, and your ears burn because you hate to seem weak and unsure, but you’re so scared of what they’re going to say that you can’t look up, not until John B’s hand comes to rest over yours.

"Kie,” he says softly. “You’re my best friend. One of us. I know JJ and Pope feel the same.” You glace up to see them nod, faces solemn. You figure they’re taking it seriously if JJ didn’t interrupt John B and declare that he thought _he_ was John B’s best friend.

“Hell yeah,” JJ said, scraping his chair closer and clapping your shoulder. He lets his hand rest there, warm and comforting. “You’re a pogue, no matter what your parents do or where you live.”

Pope leans forwards and takes your other hand. “Kie, this is crazy talk,” he says earnestly. “You’ve been with us from the start. Pogues for life, baby!”

You can’t help but laugh, and you all pretend that there aren’t tears blurring your vision. “I know, I know,” you say jokingly. “I just wanted to hear you guys say how much you love me. Keep it coming!”

The seriousness of the conversation dissolves into your usual joking madness, but you feel immensely better, and internally berate yourself for ever thinking they might see you are anything other than a pogue, than a best friend. Still, after your dad is done closing up and ushers the four of you out, John B stops you before you climb into the passenger seat with your dad.

“I just want to make sure that you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you are one of us,” he says, and he is so serious that all you can do is nod. “This isn’t even about pogues and kooks. Without you, we wouldn’t be _us_ , Kie. You’re irreplaceable.”

Your eyes are watering again, but you blink them away quickly and instead punch John B’s shoulder lightly. You notice that you two are the same height, for now, and his eyes are searching and wide and stupidly earnest. “Stop with all this, I got it the first time,” you say, even though it feels so good to hear him say it again. John B just grins at you and pulls you into a hug, and you feel JJ and Pope join soon after.

“Pogues for life,” you whisper, and smile when they say it back.

* * *

You’re fourteen when you have your first real, blow out fight with your parents. You do all the classic teenage tantrum things that you previously only thought existed on television, like slamming your door and screaming _I hate you_ and crying and contemplating running away. It’s the summer after eighth grade, and your parents have just informed you that you won’t be going to the public high school, where you’d be with your friends and other kids from the cut, but that you’d be going to _private_ school. _Kook_ school.

Your parents had been very serious about it. “Kiara, this school will be good for you,” your mother urges, and you hate to see how hard she’s trying. “You’ll get to meet a different crowd, make more friends—”

“What’s wrong with the friends I have now?” You snap angrily. You knew it. You _knew_ that they hated John B and JJ and Pope all along, and they were just biding their time until they could pull this trump card. “Why do you hate them so much?”

Your dad leans forward. “Kie, please don’t start this. We don’t hate them; this has nothing to do with your friends. We just want to give you the best chance at succeeding. You’re so smart, passionate… this school will let you explore all your opportunities.”

You glare at them. “What about Pope?” You argue, tone acidic. “He’s the smartest in the class, but he’s not going to this school. Are you saying he has less of a chance at succeeding? Just because he’s not going to private school?”

Your parents exchange glances, and your mother sighs heavily. “Kiara, it’s no use arguing. You’re going, whether you want to or not.” She stands up, comes around and wraps her arms around your shoulders. You sit, tense and angry, as she kisses your temple and says, “I know it doesn’t seem fair, but think; it’s just a school. You can still see your friends on the weekends.”

Your dad nods. “We would never stop you from seeing them, Kie,” he says soothingly, but all you can think of is how unfair it is, how just because you live in a big house on figure eight you’re suddenly eligible to go to private school, but Pope, who works harder than anyone you know, will never get the same opportunity, just because of where he lives, what his parents do.

You shrug off your mother and stomp upstairs, which is when you do the door slamming/screaming _I hate you_ /wild sobbing. When you’ve calmed down enough, you march over to your window and shimmy out.

You find JJ and Pope where you hoped they’d be; at the sand dunes, a perfect meeting point between the cut and figure eight. JJ is smoking a joint, but goes puts it out when you arrive, and you roll your eyes.

“I don’t care if you smoke,” you say, voice still holding some of the residual anger with your parents, and you feel it turn to anger at JJ and Pope, just for being who they are, anger at John B, because he got taken to foster care on the mainland a couple of weeks ago and none of you had heard from him since.

“Okay,” JJ says easily, and takes another long hit. Pope is looking at you with concern, and you force yourself to try and relax your hands, which are balled into fists.

Neither of them say anything as you sit down next to JJ, or when you take both your hands to cover your face, or when you start sobbing loudly. They just move closer, bracketing you on both sides, sturdy and warm.

“FUCK!” You exclaim, feeling a little bit better with the scream. JJ’s shoulder is bony and he smells like weed, but you find yourself leaning against it, grabbing for Pope’s hand and dragging him down too so that the both of you are putting all your weight on JJ, who huffs out a laugh.

“Mind telling us what’s going on?” He says, and you can feel his body shaking with silent amusement. Pope’s head is resting on your stomach, and he is looking up at you imploringly.

You breathe out harshly. “Sorry. Got into a fight with my parents.”

Pope nods sagely, while JJ huffs out another laugh. “Now that’s a first! Let’s hear about it.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s stupid, really. They told me I have to go to the private school next year.” The term ‘kook school’ hangs over you all, unsaid, but you feel both JJ and Pope still with your statement.

“Are you…excited?” Pope finally asks.

You close your eyes and exhale deeply, still feeling the hurt of when your parents first told you. “No,” you say, voice catching. “I don’t get it. I don’t want to go. I want to stay with you guys.” It’s easy to admit, you find. You love them. You can’t bear the thought of being at a different school.

JJ shifts, pushing you off of him. You catch yourself before you hit the ground but turn around and glare at him all the same. “Rude.”

JJ isn’t looking at you; he’s turned away, shoulders hunched. “You’re going full kook on us,” he says softly, but you still hear.

“Excuse me?” You demand, enraged. How dare he say that? This switch in schools was _anything_ but your choice, and you know you’ll be hurt later, but now all you feel is rage. First your parents, now JJ? “How could you even say that?”

JJ laughs, tilting his head back, before turning to look you straight on. It’s only then that you notice his right eye is swollen almost all the way shut, that his lip is busted, dried blood still there. Your mouth snaps closed, eyes going soft. “JJ…” you start.

“Save it,” he says roughly. “Ever since John B left you’ve barely been around. It’s not your fault, Kie, you can’t help it. It’s what kooks do. You belong with them.”

Even though his face looks rough, and you have your suspicions as to what happened, you feel the urge to smack him. But you can barely find the words. You supposed that after John B was taken by DCS more or less without a chance to say goodbye, you spent some time away from JJ and Pope, but that was because your parents had been suddenly demanding more of your attention, because you were volunteering at the turtle sanctuary… it’s not like you were looking for excuses not to hang out with them! But the more you sit there and think about it, the heavier your gut becomes. Are you going full kook? Is this the breaking point?

“JJ,” Pope says in a gently chiding tone. He’s still lounging on the sand next to you, and his eyes flit from you to JJ and back again. “It’s not Kiara’s fault that her parents are sending her to private school, come on.”

JJ wipes at his face angrily, but you didn’t think you saw any tears. Still, he keeps a hand pressed tightly over his eyes, jaw working.

When neither you nor JJ speak, Pope continues. “And it’s not John B’s fault, either. It’s not like he knew DCS was just waiting to jump on him once Big John messed up and stayed away just a bit too long.”

“Why haven’t we heard from him, then?” You explode, redirecting your anger to Pope suddenly, knowing it was unfair but not caring. “Where is he? Off enjoying his new life on the mainland, with his new friends and perfect new family?” You know that all of that is highly unlikely, but you still don’t understand why he wouldn’t have texted, or called, or sent a fucking _postcard_ at the very least.

Pope shrugs, looking uncomfortable. You all feel it; the sense of wrongness without him. It’s like you’re missing a piece of yourself. The summer without him has been strange. Not that you and JJ and Pope couldn’t find things to do just the three of you, but it had felt… wrong. Maybe that was why you’d spent so much time at the turtle sanctuary or helping your dad at the Wreck.

Your silence is broken by a choked sob. JJ. You whip your head to look at him, shocked to see tears leaking out from beneath his hands. You glance back at Pope, who looks just as surprised as you. Tentatively, you turn back to JJ and inch closer, draping your arm over his shoulder, bringing your other hand around to cup his head until it gently lowers onto your shoulder. Pope comes around onto JJ’s other side, wrapping his arms around the both of you.

“I just… it just… _sucks_ to feel abandoned by two friends,” JJ eventually says, forcing the words out. You feel your heart break a little, and you find yourself shushing him, rocking him soothingly.

“I’m sorry,” you say, making eye contact with Pope as the night turns darker around you. “I’m so, so sorry.”

…

John B is back at the start of the last two weeks of summer. You can’t help it; you shriek with excitement, and charge towards him, barely giving him time to climb off his bike before you slam into him. Pope and JJ jog up behind you, and each take turns giving John B a hug. John B clings to JJ the longest, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip on the back of JJ’s ratty t-shirt.

“Woah dude, trying to break my ribs?” JJ jokes, but he doesn’t move, waiting for John B to break the hug first, his hand coming up and gripping the back of his head to hold him tighter. Finally, John B relaxes his arms and steps away, gazing at all of you, and you find yourself drinking in the sight of him as well. He looks pretty much the same, maybe a little more tired than usual, his skin not the usual golden brown it would normally be by this point of the summer. He’s wearing his usual clothes; bathing suit, converse, and a tacky Hawaiian shirt, which you notice is buttoned up all the way, not just barely secured by the one button like usual.

Even with all these slight differences, you still feel like something is off, different. It’s not until the four of you are sitting at the edge of your dock, feet dangling over the water that it strikes you. His eyes. You remember them always being so bright, like the sun itself was reflected out of them, but now, they’d lost their luster. It was like a shadow had passed over them, and this scares you.

“So, how’s the summer been?” John B asks when conversation dies down a bit. “What was it like, having to operate without your fearless leader?” JJ punches him the side, but he’s grinning. Now that you see them together, you don’t know how you missed JJ’s downward spiral without him earlier this summer. It’s obvious; the two boys play off each other like brothers.

“Oh, you know,” Pope says casually, leaning back on his forearms. “Defeated the kooks, found some hidden treasure, went to space, the usual.”

You all laugh, but it eventually dies off into a somewhat somber mood. Suddenly desperate to keep the conversation going, to keep things light and upbeat, you say, “I’m going to private school this year. Full kook, as JJ would say.” Even though the words had hurt when he first said it, you say them now with a joking manner, having accepted a few weeks back that while you may have to go to the school, you wouldn’t have to like it.

John B takes the news better than you had, better than JJ and Pope. “I hope you like it,” he says genuinely. “But kook school or not, you better not forget about us.”

“Like you forgot about us?” JJ says suddenly, as if he couldn’t help himself. You glance sharply at him, not wanting anything to ruin the mood of John B’s return. JJ is staring resolutely out at the horizon, not looking at anyone, and John B has turned his gaze down to his hands, which fiddle with the drawstring of his bathing suit. You’re all silent until John B takes a deep breath.

“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice dull, emotionless. It was like somebody had flipped a switch, and your funny, charismatic friend is suddenly replaced with someone much more subdued. “I tried; I really did. I wrote letters, but didn’t have any money for stamps, and they – my foster parents – wouldn’t give me any. I asked to borrow their phone, and when they said no, I tried anyways, but when they found out…” his voice had been measured, an even tone, but it starts to get shakier the more he spoke. You, JJ and Pope sit still as statues. John B sucks in an unsteady breath before looking up and turning to look at the three of you. His eyes were shiny, but he still managed a weak smile. “Foster care ain’t all that,” he says, and then huffs out a laugh that almost immediately turns into a sob.

“I’m sorry,” he cries, shoulders shaking, as you, Pope and JJ drape yourselves over him, as if the three of you could shield him from whatever had hurt him with your bodies alone. “I tried, I tried, you have to believe me, please believe me, I missed you guys so much.” He trails off, spitting out apologies, and you murmur soothing words to him, trying not to think of what could’ve happened this summer that had hurt your friend in this way. John B always seemed so strong and confident and sure of himself, and whatever situation he’d been in these last few weeks seemed to have taken its toll. You press yourself closer, hand rubbing his back, your and Pope’s and JJ’s arms encircling him from all sides.

You learn a bit more later, hearing from JJ that John B has to give a statement to a DCS official, or something like that. Frustrated that John B didn’t tell you this yourself, you jump on your bike after dinner and head over to his house.

You let yourself in, and are taken aback slightly when you are greeted by Big John, sitting at the kitchen table and looking over some dated looking papers.

“Uh, sorry,” you stammer. “The door was open.”

“Bird’s in his room,” Big John says, barely looking up as he jerks a thumb over his shoulder. You thank him and skitter past, through the kitchen to John B’s room. The door is cracked slightly, and you knock once before letting yourself in.

John B is laying on his stomach, scrolling through his phone that you know Big John got him once they were reunited, but jerks up at your entrance, startled. He relaxes when he sees that it’s you, groaning and running his hand through his hair. “Jesus, Kie, you almost gave me a heart attack,” he says. You roll your eyes and take a seat on his desk, legs crossed over each other.

“So, I’ve heard from JJ that you have to talk to DCS,” you say nonchalantly, cutting right to the chase. John B groans and flops downwards, burying his face in a pillow. “I just came by to see if you wanted to talk a bit first, or something,” you continue, voice getting softer. John B still hasn’t resurfaced from his pillow, so you plow onwards. “I don’t know what happened this summer, nor do I _need_ to know if you don’t want to tell me, but I think it’s in your best interest to talk about it someone, whether it’s JJ or Pope or your dad or this DCS person.” This, you are certain of, as you’ve taken a recent interest in trauma psychology after bingeing a few too many episodes of Criminal Minds. You know that painful memories can have harmful effects, but you don’t say this just yet.

“How do you know I haven’t talked to JJ or Pope?” John B says, voice muffled by the pillow.

“Because they would’ve told me, obviously,” you say, careful to keep your voice light. “No secrets between pogues, remember?”

John B finally sits up, pushing himself against the headboard and drawing his knees up to his chest. He isn’t looking at you, rather, he’s gazing out the window, out at the water. His eyes still aren’t back to their usual brightness, but you’ve seen some improvement over the last few days, and that gives you hope.

You sit in silence for a bit, and you’re about to say something when John B breaks it. “I missed this,” he says, and you assume he’s talking about the view, the ocean. “Being here. Being with you guys, being at home.” You stay silent, hoping he’ll continue, and are rewarded when he does. “When DCS came to get me, they didn’t even give me a chance to tell you guys, and that sucked. I begged them to let me at least write a note, but they couldn’t seem to care less.” You feel your eyes growing misty at the thought, and you hate yourself just a little more for ever thinking that he had chosen not to reach out to you guys back at home.

“My foster home was fine, I made too big of a deal of it when I finally got back here,” is what John B says next. You’re not sure if you agree; not allowing your foster child to reach out to any of his connections back home didn’t seem healthy or caring. “Some people have it so much worse. I had a bed, at least, and they let me use their son’s old bike, sometimes.” He says these things like they’re something he should be grateful for, rather than something that he should’ve just been granted without question.

He stops talking, and still isn’t looking at you, which gives you an idea that there is more to the story. “So, why do you need to talk to DCS?” You ask, playing dumb. “Sounds like it was just dandy.”

John B smiles, looking pained, and looks down at his hands. You try a different tactic. “John B, believe me, I’m not trying to get you to spill any dirty secrets. You’re my best friend and I care about you, and I can see that you’re not alright and it’s killing me.” Your voice breaks a bit at the end, and John B looks up, surprised, as if he had no idea anyone could ever cry over him. You leave your perch on his desk and come around to his bed, sitting yourself beside him and resting your head on his shoulder, and that’s when he starts to talk, eyes closed, as if not seeing you meant he wasn’t actually admitting it to anyone, that his secrets stayed safe with him. You grab his hand when he starts talking, rubbing your thumb in a soothing circle on the top of his hand, and he talks about being locked in his room at night, about being forced to go without dinner when he did something that bothered his foster parents, about the beatings that would occur if he didn’t stay silent enough when in the house, or wasn’t quick enough to get his foster dad a beer, or stayed in the shower too long. It seemed that anything in that household was warrant for abuse, and you learn that John B took to spending most of the daytime in the local library, where he’d befriended the librarian.

“I think she saved my life,” he says. “She would split her lunch with me, and sometimes it would be a few days where that was the only food I’d get. I was too scared to try and use the phones to call someone, even DCS – I made that mistake after the second week, and they locked me in my room for three days straight after that. But she noticed something was wrong and got me out of there.” You sense that he’s close to finished, so you look up to meet his eye. He smiles at you, small but genuine. “And that’s why I’m back here.”

You don’t have any words, so you just wrap your arms around his torso and squeeze. The two of you stay like that for a bit, before you ask the question that had been on your mind since you walked in. “And your dad? How’d he react?”

John B shrugs. “Says he’s gonna stick around more, but he’s said that before, so we’ll see how it goes.” He sounds nonchalant, but you can feel his heartbeat from where your head is leaning against his chest. His pulse is racing, and you know that even though he won’t say it, he’s scared his dad will leave again.

You stay at his house for a little while longer, updating him more on what he missed out on over the summer, and the two of you talk about school starting next week. Around eleven, you have to go, making sure not to close the door all the way on your way out at John B’s panicked but sheepish request. You creep through the kitchen, footsteps light. Big John is still sitting at the table, exactly where you left him. This time, he looks up as you walk past him.

“He’ll be alright,” he says, voice gruff. 

“John B always is,” you reply, before slipping out into the night.

* * *

You’re fifteen years old when you decide that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you hate Sarah Cameron. You hate her stupid laugh and her preppy clothes and her unblemished skin and perfect hair and her love for the same things you love – you hate her because you could’ve _been_ her, if you’d grown up in this life, grown up as a kook. You know it for a fact, because after a year in school with the kooks, you see what your mother wanted you to be like.

And the worst part, was that at first, you tried. You dressed in sundresses and cutoff shorts and flowy tops, you talked to your schoolmates, tried different clubs, went to sleepovers. You still saw JJ and Pope and John B as often as you could, but you now went to schools on opposite sides of the island, and you had a whole new set of responsibilities that came with high school, which included some weekend time. And you saw less and less and less of the boys until you realized you weren’t seeing them at all.

And you blame Sarah Cameron for that. She was so damn nice and seemed to genuinely be interested in you. She reminded you of John B, in a strange way; they both were so charismatic, had a way of making whoever they were with feel like the most important person in their world. And it felt _good_ to finally have a friend that was a girl, who laughed at bad chick flicks and squealed at the sight of baby turtles and teared up when she saw a litter of abandoned kittens on the side of the road. Being friends with Sarah was like being friends with a firecracker; she was full of boundless ideas and energy, moving through boyfriends like other people moved through favorite songs, and you got swept up in it, because at the root of it all, Sarah was _good_. She just was. Friendly, sweet, a good listener. When she took you to the turtle sanctuary so you two could watch the baby turtles hatch and help them get safely to the sea, you could’ve sworn you fell a little bit in love.

And that’s why it hurt so much when you realized you were wrong. Sarah Cameron was _not_ good, she wasn’t nice, wasn’t friendly. She had her sixteenth birthday party and invited almost everyone on the goddam island except for you. And it _hurt_ , and you hated that it made you so upset, because you normally didn’t care about parties in the slightest, but no matter how many times you told yourself that, your throat still closed up and you found yourself having to take deep breaths to calm down before you did something embarrassing, like cry.

So, you did the next best thing; you called the cops. You still don’t have any remorse for doing so, for ruining a kook’s ‘sweet sixteen’, because to you, this was all the proof you needed. You hated kooks, and you hated your private school, and now there was absolutely nothing that would change your mind. You go back to wearing your usual clothes, stop putting on makeup, stop caring. Your mom is devastated, but she hides it well; you know that she never wanted to be the mom that pressured her daughter into certain standards, and you appreciate that she actually holds back, rather than dropping to your feet and begging to know what happened.

So you and Sarah don’t talk anymore, and you go to a school where you are more or less a social pariah, especially after someone – Sarah, you presume – starts a rumor that you were the one to call the cops on her party. It’s true, but you don’t need to shatter your reputation any more by admitting to it.

What hurts the most, you realize, is not even having anyone to talk to about it. Without even noticing, JJ, Pope and John B have faded into the background, taking the backseat in your life without you ever intending it. You still see them, of course, but more in passing now than anything. So, one evening after a particularly grueling day of school, you hop on your bike and head out to your meeting spot, hoping to catch one of them there. When there’s nobody except for a few younger kids passing around a bottle of something, you check the beach, scanning the waves for any hint of surfers. Still nothing, but rather than giving up, you bike all the way to Heyward’s.

Pope is standing behind the counter, sorting something, and his eyes go wide with shock when you walk in. “Kiara?” He says, and you honestly don’t think he needs to sound _that_ surprised to see you.

“Hey, Pope,” you say casually, sticking your hands in your back pockets. You’re feeling a little nervous, and now that you’re here, you’re more than a little ashamed that you haven’t made an effort to come out to see him or any of the boys sooner. “How are you?”

Pope glances at his father, flashing him a ‘five-minute’ sign. Heyward nods, and Pope rushes out from behind the counter, grabbing your arm and tugging you outside. The two of you stand in the dwindling afternoon light, and you find yourself suddenly at a loss for words.

Pope is shaking his head, tapping his foot, doing all sorts of movement. It’s like he’s nervous. “Kiara, it’s been like… months since any of us have heard from you.”

“What? That’s not true!” You protest, actually dumfounded by the statement. The four of you still had your group chat, which you think you post in pretty regularly.

“Okay, maybe not months,” Pope amends, because out of everyone, he is definitely the peacekeeper of the group. “But it kinda feels like you fell off the face of the earth. I’m just saying,” he says, holding his hands up in an ‘I surrender’ gesture. “We’d all talked about staying together, especially after this summer, and you just kinda…” he trails off.

“Kinda what, Pope?” You demand. “Went full kook?”

“Well, yeah!” Pope exclaims. “Jesus, Kiara, where have you been? This island isn’t that big, but you’ve been AWOL since school started! What were we supposed to do, just show up at your house uninvited, not even knowing if you’d be there?”

You bite your lip, subdued by Pope’s outburst. It had been a long time since you’d seen them all in person, and an even longer time since you invited them all to your house, something you used to do often. “Look, I’m sorry,” you say, because you are. “I messed up. I’m not going to try and make excuses. I – I miss you, and John B and JJ,” you finish quietly. You’re desperate to explain yourself, just to try and make Pope understand a little better as to why you weren’t around, but you refrain. If he’ll let you, you’ll explain later. But for now, you just want to let him know how much you’ve missed him.

Pope’s gaze softens at your apology. “Look, I get it,” he says, wiping his hands awkwardly on his apron. “I’ve been super busy too; I gotta keep my grades up for a shot at a scholarship, and it hasn’t been easy. I could’ve tried harder… we all could,” he finishes apologetically. You nod, a small smile breaking out on your face, and you lean forward to press your fist against his shoulder lightly.

“Scholarship, eh?” You say. “That’s awesome, Pope, really. I know you can get it.”

Pope looks bashful, but a hopeful grin emerges. “God, I hope so.” The two of you look at each other for a moment, before he pulls you into a hug. “I’ve missed you, Kie,” he says, and he’s so much taller than you now that your head fits under his chin easily. Pope breaks the hug and holds you at arm distance, regarding you seriously. “But I don’t know if JJ and John B will forgive you so quickly,” he warns.

You nod. It was what you were expecting, anyways. You lean in to hug Pope again, breathing in the smell of salt and sweat and spices from whatever he was doing back inside. “Never let me go full kook again,” you say, before pushing him in the direction of the door. “Now get back to work,” you say teasingly. He salutes you as he heads back inside.

“Good to have you back, Kie,” he says. “And good luck with the others.” Right. John B and JJ next. You have a good idea of where they’ll be at this hour, so you square your shoulders, hop on your bike, and pedal onwards.

…

Pope is right, JJ and John B are harder to talk to. You find them at John B’s house, lounging in the screened in porch to avoid the bugs that always come out at this hour. JJ won’t even look at you, opting instead to toss a ball into the air over and over again, catching it each time with a resounding thud as it smacks into his palm. John B, at least, will look at you, his face uncharacteristically blank as he sits with his arms crossed.

You take a deep breath. “Look, I already talked to Pope –”

JJ cuts you off almost immediately with a mean laugh. “Ah, so what are we? Sloppy seconds to your heartfelt apologies? I want something original, not a replay whatever bullshit you spewed at Pope.”

“JJ, will you shut the fuck up and let me speak?” You snap, before remembering that you’re not on the terms right now where you two can bicker without consequences. But all JJ does is glare at you, before turning back to his ball. You shake your head, close your eyes, start over. What did you want to hear from John B, back when you’d all thought he’d abandoned you? What would you want to hear from Sarah, if you ever stopped hating her enough to forgive her?

“Sorry,” you say to JJ, before plowing on. “I’ve realized I messed up big time these past couple of months. I got wrapped up in my new life – yes, the kook life, I know, I hate myself just as much as you do.” You risk a glance up to see the corner of John B’s mouth quirk upwards, but you’re not ready to stop. “It wasn’t fair that I kind of went off the radar, and I’m sorry. I have my reasons, but I’m not going to try and make any excuses. I just – I guess I learned my lesson.” Now you look up, meeting the eyes of two of your best friends in the whole world. “Call me a kook, or whatever, but… I really miss you guys. I’m so sorry.”

The three of you are silent for a moment, until it becomes too overwhelming. What if they can never forgive you? “Are you going to say anything?” You ask nervously.

John B sighs, stands up and walks over to you. “Jesus, Kiara, we weren’t going to like excommunicate you or something,” he says, and you get a sudden flashback to a moment similar to this one, when you were twelve. Only then, John B and you were the same height, and JJ was a skinny, scrappy little kid. Now, though, they both are so much taller, broader, looking less and less like the little faces you still have smiling at you from the photos you took when you were ten years old, though somehow still achingly similar.

“I know that,” you say, voice wobbly even though you try to force it to be neutral. “I just owed you an apology. It was wrong of me to abandon you guys like that.”

JJ snorted, getting up and walking over to join you and John B. “Don’t flatter yourself, Kie; how do you know we weren’t thriving in your kook-inspired absence?”

You stare dubiously at him, and John B laughs and shakes his head. “We absolutely were not thriving, I’ll tell you that,” he says, and you laugh. You want so badly to hug both of them, but you refrain, not sure if they’ve fully forgiven you or not.

“Aw, hell,” JJ says, and hooks an arm around your neck and another around John B’s, dragging both of you in. You’re smushed between the two of them, their chests sweaty and smelly and you feel anything but glamorous, but you do get the same sense of relief you felt when hugging Pope. “It’s like John B said all those years ago, right? Pogues don’t abandon pogues, no matter what.”

You laugh, beyond grateful for your dumbass, loyal, forgiving, trusting friends. “Pogues for life.”

* * *

You’re sixteen when John B’s father goes missing. School is still in session, and you’re still dedicated to your classes, but you know that John B hasn’t been going to class for the last week, once they declared his father officially dead, and that means neither is JJ. Pope texts you about it separately, saying his efforts to get them motivated were unsuccessful, but he still has to go if he wants to be a candidate for the scholarship. You bite your lip and worry it between your teeth, before deciding that you can afford to skip a day. You hop into your car – now that you have your license, biking everywhere is no longer necessary, thank _god_. You’re at John B’s house not twenty minutes later, with muffins and three coffees that you stopped to pick up along the way.

You let yourself into the house, not seeing any sign of the boys. Maybe they did go to school? “Hello,” you call out, shoving an old pizza box and empty beer cans aside to make room on the table for breakfast. “John B? JJ?”

There’s a crashing sound, and suddenly JJ appears in the kitchen, looking surprised to see you. “Kiara?” He says, staring at you like you’re a hallucination.

“Um, yeah,” you say, approaching him. “How are you guys? Where’s John B?”

JJ runs his hands though his hair before scrubbing harshly at his face, as if trying to wake up. “Is that coffee?” He says, pointing at what is most definitely coffee on the table. You barely have time to nod before he’s tried all three and settled on the one that he evidently likes the best, the vanilla bean mocha.

"You could’ve just asked which one was for you, I ordered them all specially,” you say, snatching your oat-milk latte before he could drink from it again. “How long have you been here? Where’s John B?”

"He’s asleep,” JJ says, sinking onto the couch, looking ready to fall asleep himself. You sit down at the table, facing him.

“What have you guys been up to?” You ask, picking at a muffin.

JJ shakes his head. “You know, drinking, smoking, fishing. Just guys being dudes.”

“Ah yes, the trio of healthy coping mechanisms,” you say, nodding sagely. JJ scowls at you, before sighing and pulling himself up into a seated position.

“I’m worried for him,” he confesses, voice low. You lean forward too as JJ bounces his leg rapidly, glancing behind you into the kitchen. “He’s really not taking it well. Refuses to believe Big John is dead. Adamant about it, says he can find him, that he knows he’s out there.” JJ goes quiet for a moment, before continuing. “I’m pretty sure one of the last times they saw each other, they had an argument. I’m not sure, but something’s eating at him. He’s having nightmares, but he won’t say about what.”

You glance behind you now, too, in the direction of the closed door of John B’s bedroom. It hurts to think he’s suffering right now. The nightmares could be anything; guilt over his last conversation with his dad, fear over what may have happened to Big John, anxiety that the DCS would come back. You turn back to JJ, scanning him shrewdly.

“And what about you?” You ask, heart wrenching a bit when he looks up in confusion, like he has no idea why someone would be concerned for his wellbeing.

“What do you mean? I’m not the one who’s an orphan,” he says bluntly.

You roll your eyes. “Sensitive, as always. JJ, you look dead on your feet. When’s the last time you slept? Went home?”

JJ looks down, avoiding your gaze. “Well, I’ve kinda been staying here for the past few weeks. John B doesn’t need to be alone right now,” he says, and you agree that’s true, but you also suspect that JJ would rather never go home, if he had the choice. “As for when I last slept, well, I catch a few hours here and there.” The bags under his eyes tell you that he probably means a few hours every couple of days.

You walk over to him, and he watches you approach with slight apprehension, which switches to confusion when you push his shoulders down until he’s lying horizontally on the couch. “Get some sleep,” you order him, throwing a blanket draped over the back of a chair at him. “I’ll keep an eye on John B.” On both of you, you say to yourself, because you know JJ wouldn’t appreciate it.

JJ looks like he wants to protest, but his eyes are already slipping shut. “Thanks, Kie,” he mumbles, and then, by some miracle, is out like a light.

You take it upon yourself to tidy things up a bit, throw away the trash, move the dirty dishes into the sink, so that they’re not piled on every available surface. You suppose you could do the dishes as well, but while you’re nice, you’re not _that_ nice.

Once the house was in a bit more of a presentable state, you settle again at the kitchen table, pulling out some schoolwork to kill the time as you watch over your friends.

…

Pope comes over as soon as school gets out, though JJ and John B are still asleep. You two head outside so you can talk without disturbing them, laying on the hammock foot-to-face, meaning your feet where in his face, and his feet in yours. You talk aimlessly about things; life, school, Pope’s scholarship, the next hurricane predictions, and soon enough the sun was setting, basking you two in the golden light. You’re laughing, pushing his feet out of your face while also trying to stick your toes in his ear, when you hear the screen door swing open and slam shut. It’s JJ, who approaches the hammock without a word, and collapses on top of the two of you, forcing the air out of your lungs.

“Jesus, JJ,” Pope says, sounded similarly winded. “Give a guy a warning next time!”

"My bad,” JJ says, limbs jabbing all over the two of you as he repositions himself to lay next to Pope. The hammock rocks dangerously with the added weight, but neither of you mind.

The three of you watch the sun sink lower and lower over the marsh, minds empty, just enjoying the feel of each other’s bodies pressed together. The sun is a mere slip of light when the door bangs open and shut again, and John B steps outside, regarding the three of you.

You don’t say anything as he approaches, and neither do JJ or Pope – JJ pats the hammock, and John B carefully climbs into it, much more gracefully than JJ had. Then, you’re all rearranging until you’re comfortably curled around each other. John B’s eyes are puffy, and he has bags that rival JJ’s, but his gaze is sharp as he stares past the three of you, at the darkening sky, as if it holds all the answers to his questions. His hair tickles your cheek, but you don’t dare move as you watch the stars start to appear, one by one.

You’re struck suddenly, by the intensity of love that you feel for these boys. For Pope, who is working so hard to make a name for himself, to create opportunities that will allow him to pursue what he wants in this life. For JJ, who always seems to put the three of you first even though you know that he is struggling in ways that it hurts to think about, never afraid to speak his mind, loyal and sturdy and passionate. For John B, who has been knocked down so many times but always seems to get back up, optimism never wavering.

You and John B and JJ and Pope lay contently, nestled together, all but intertwined. You four are a puzzle, whole when you are together, slotted against one another. Meant to be. There is no talk of John B’s dad, of pogues or kooks, or what the future might hold. Just four hearts coming together to beat in synchronization as you count the stars. 

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: John B's experience with foster care is not representative of all foster care experiences, I just like the angst.
> 
> would love to hear what you think! outer banks has consumed my life at the moment, so please feel free to share your thoughts, own head cannons, etc:)


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